A Winter's Grief
by Lythande1972
Summary: What if Aunt Shaw was delayed, and Mr. Bell did not stay, and Margaret chose to stay in Milton for several weeks after the death of her father? What if the grief was more than she could handle alone?
1. Chapter 1

Margaret sat, curled into a tiny ball, lost in her father's old armchair. Not lost in thought; simply…lost, as she had been for many weeks now.

For days after her father's death, she barely stirred from the couch. After that, just as Dixon was beginning to fear that Miss Margaret should not recover, she arose; but she did not return to life.

Something had cracked badly inside of Margaret, and she would not be the same again.

It was only the two of them, now. As the days passed, Dixon despaired of Margaret ever eating more than a few bites at any meal. She sat up long hours in her father's chair, ignoring Dixon's entreaties to her to retire to her bed. She talked little and received no one. Her face grew ever paler. The bones began to show through her elbows and even her soft round cheeks grew gaunt.

Many people came to call: Nicholas and Mary Higgins; several of Mr. Hale's former pupils; Mrs. Thornton and John and even Fanny all tried to pay their respects. Margaret turned them all away. She simply could not imagine speaking to anyone about anything; it was too great an effort. The only way for her to continue her existence was for her to live in as complete a solitude as possible, as she waited for…something…to change. Some lessening of this profound grief...

But when Margaret was really honest with herself, she did not believe that it _would_ lessen. She had lost her childhood home and all of her family; Frederick was forever lost to her in Spain; Bessie was gone; and John Thorton despised her.

Whatever point was there left in her life?

Margaret's daily walks were another casualty of her father's death. It wasn't until a month after her father's passing that Margaret was able to even leave the house.

That was a grey, wintry February day. Margaret hid herself behind her black bonnet and avoided all eye contact. She was thankful that no one tried to speak to her.

Without planning to, she found herself following her usual path through the Milton churchyard.

She stood by the Boucher graves, gazing out over the city. She pulled her mourning cloak tightly around her. The wind cut through the thin material.

Margaret was, of course, a vicar's daughter, raised in and around churches. Graveyards had been her playgrounds; her father's workplace; a part of the landscape; a restful place to sit and read, or contemplate. But no more.

In this new stark and angry and empty world, not even graveyards gave her respite. There was no restful place for her anywhere, anymore. But the graveyard felt _real_. Boucher was here. Bessie was here. Her mother was here. And here they would always stay. Unchanging; with no false hopes created of anything better, or of any meaning to be gleaned from the realities of a short and often brutal existence. No artifice. No lies.

It was something that made sense in the way the rest of life no longer did.

Everyone dies, she thought. Everyone. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, indeed…

She did not notice when John Thornton came over the hill behind her.

The sight of her made him stop dead; made the air rush from his lungs and his legs turn to lead. He forgot to breathe as he stared at her, the blood roaring in his ears.

He had not seen her since before her father died, and he had longed for the sight of her every day since. But how changed she was! How pale and sickly! How deep were the circles under her eyes, and the shadows on her cheeks. She seemed so very lost. So fragile.

He wanted to rush over and sweep her up in his arms; to kiss her pain away. _I will be your new family,_ he wanted to say. _You are the center of my world; let me help you rebuild yours. Oh my dearest Margaret, please let me help you…_

But of course he could not say any of these things. He could only stand there, frozen. A great hand squeezed his heart.

She turned, and saw him.

He still could not move, but watched as she seemed to grow even paler and sadder before him. But of course; she despised him. How could his presence now, in her darkest hour, bring her anything but pain? He felt desperately ashamed that he had interrupted her solitude, and thought frantically: should I just turn and walk away, and pretend this never happened? Would it be better to speak now, or would that just make it worse? What can I –

She interrupted his racing thoughts. "Mr. Thornton. I did not see you there." Her voice was low, and steady. Her lovely eyes rested briefly on his, and his heart sang to see them again; then they dropped away.

The choice had been made for him, and though he hated himself for it, he was glad. He could stay in her presence a moment longer. "Miss Hale." He paused, searching for the right words. "I was so sorry to hear of the loss of Mr. Hale. He…he was a good friend to me."

She nodded, still not looking at him. He saw her shiver; he longed to offer her his coat.

"Thank you," she said simply. And then, slowly, "He…he thought very highly of you."

_But you do not,_ he finished silently. The self-loathing, and self-pity, that he always carried inside of him would not be silenced; but still, he fought to try to hold a normal conversation with her. This creature who held his heart, unknowing, in her hands.

He cleared his throat. "If…if there is anything that I or my family can do…" he began.

She smiled, if it could even be called that; a pale imitation of her former smile. Her voice was so low he struggled to hear her. "Thank you, Mr. Thornton. You are very kind."

He knew the words were meaningless. He could not help. He had nothing to offer her.

She took her leave, then, and turned away to walk down the path back to town. He watched her go, feeling the weight of his own grief. She was so alone. And he could not ease her pain.

* * *

Early one morning there was a sudden frantic knocking on the door.

Margaret's head was heavy, and it ached so. But she lifted it and listened as Dixon spoke to whomever it was.

Margaret was surprised to hear Mary's voice, raised and anxious in a way she had not heard since the day Bessie's illness worsened, so long ago. The sound of it made her heart pound, and she found herself standing up with no memory of making the decision to do so.

_Nicholas,_ she thought. _Dear God, not him too._

She was at the top of the stairs when Dixon appeared at the bottom, her face lined with concern. "Miss Hale, it's Miss Higgins…"

Margaret flew down the stairs with more energy than she had felt in many weeks. There was a metallic taste of panic in her mouth. Mary was standing in the doorway, wrapped in her thin grey shawl. She looked careworn and exhausted, and there were tear-tracks in the dust on her face.

"Oh, Miss Margaret, I'm so sorry to bother ye. I know ye're not taking visitors. But my father – my father – "

"What is it? Tell me!"

"He was hurt yesterday. At the mill. His foot was crushed, miss Margaret. They carried him home and the doctor tended him, but oh! Miss! I am so afeared for him! He cannot sleep, and it is so swollen, miss. Please, won't you come?"

"Of course," Margaret reassured her. She fought back her own panic. _He is not dead. It is just his foot. He is not dead. _ "I will come, and if we need to send for the doctor to return, we will do so. Do not fear, Mary. Dixon, where is my cloak?"

Nicholas sat up in bed, his foot propped up before him. Several Boucher children sprawled on the bed or lay across the floor, intent in their play. Nicholas seemed exhausted and a little green, and his hair was matted to his head with grease and sweat. But still, he smiled a genuine smile when Margaret and Mary entered the room.

"Miss Margaret! I should break my foot more often if this is the reward I get. Ah, but you are a sight for sore eyes." As he talked, he looked at her, and he, too, saw what Thornton had seen: the starved face; the circles under her eyes. In one short month she had changed so much. He tried to hide his concern with jolly talk. "I'm not sorry to see you, but you should know that Mary didn't need to disturb you. I am perfectly fine. Doc says I'll be able to walk on it in a week, and Thornton says he will let me keep my job."

Margaret hardly heard him as she lowered herself to the bed to examine his foot. It did look bad and was greatly swollen. But Nicholas was in better shape than she'd feared; he clearly was not feverish, and his leg was bruised, but had not the angry red of infection.

She allowed herself a breath, feeling as if it were the first one she'd taken since she'd heard the doorbell.

She raised her eyes to Nicholas', and took his hand in relief. She worked hard to conceal her exhaustion and weakness, and tried to make her smile bright. It was not as much of an effort as she'd feared; she was surprised by how much it gladdened her heart to be in the company of friends.

"Oh, Nicholas, it is good to see you, too. Mary led me to believe that you were at death's door. I am very glad to know that you are not."

Behind her, Mary blushed, but Nicholas smiled fondly at her.

Margaret looked around the small room. She glimpsed a fruit basket and did not let her mind dwell on the probable sender. "Is there something that I can do, to make you more comfortable?"

"No. Doc's coming again tomorrow. Just your visit is a great treat, Miss Margaret. It has been too long. Many a time we tried to visit since…" He paused, and then started again. "We…we are so sorry. Mr Hale was a right good man."

As soon as he said this, Nicholas wished it unsaid. Margaret had been smiling, distracted from her own life; even a little rosy-cheeked from running through the streets to his house. But now the grief returned to her face, and all other things fled.

Turning her face away, she spoke quietly. The same words she had she'd said to Mr. Thornton, in the same hushed tone; a formula; a routine she would never have wanted to learn.

"Thank you. He thought very highly of you. You are very kind."

She stayed a little longer, and tried her best to have a conversation with these two dear people, the six smaller children clamoring for their attention around her. But she was weak from grief and lack of food; from days without sunshine or fresh air; and the adrenaline of their travels across town had long faded. She felt herself growing weary, even a little dizzy, and felt she should return home.

She embraced them both as she left. It had been a month since she felt the touch of another human being. She trembled as she said goodbye; for the first time, she she did not wish to return to the house that was now so very desolate.


	2. Chapter 2

Margaret left the Higgins' house fully planning to return home immediately...but she found she did not want to. The last few hours had been spent out of her house and and the company of friends. They had begun to remind her, just a little, of what life used to mean to her.

She did not want to crawl back into the dark _just_ yet.

The day was grey and cold, and threatening rain. The air was fresher outside than in. Without meaning to, she began to breathe more deeply.

Impulsively, instead of continuing home, she turned south. Towards the river.

She knew a quiet and secluded spot on the riverbank. She went there, and sat down. Her skirts encircled her with soft folds even as they grew stained with mud. The dirt was cold and rocky and hard and smelled of river plants and winter winds. The water was clear here, above the factories.

She watched the river. She examined the bobbles and eddies as it circled rocks and logs. She focused on some hardy riverbugs, who did not seem bothered by the cold. She let herself be distracted by the crows overhead. She let her thoughts drift away. She thought of nothing.

Nothing...until suddenly she found herself sobbing.

Wrenching, violent, ugly cries came up out of nowhere, stealing her breath, making her shake and gasp as she struggled to keep quiet. She could not control it. She wept for her lost parents. She wept for poor Frederick; for Bessie; she wept for sweet, distant, ethereal Helstone. She wept with relief that she had not lost another friend today. And she wept for something else, something deeply hidden, that she could not name. Something she hadn't known that she wanted...

_Oh, Father...why did we ever come here?_

She did not know how long this went on. Her throat burned and she felt nauseous, but she could not stop. The sun was sinking low in the sky, and she could not stop. The sobs were so forceful, and she was so tired.

At last they began to subside. She forced the last few noises back into her throat, and made herself try to take in some deep, shaky breaths. She was trembling with cold and exhaustion. Her head felt clogged and heavy with tears.

She covered her face with her hands, trying to calm herself.

When she pulled her hands away, she was surprised to find that it was dusk.

Dusk! And she was a mile or more from home. She had been gone for a whole day. Dixon would be worried, and then furious, and Margaret was not safe out alone now. She must fly home at once!

But fate was not on her side.

Margaret had not eaten a bite since dawn nor a good meal in weeks; she had not slept; she had been so frightened for Nicholas. She had wept so hard and for so long. She simply had nothing left.

When she rose up in panicky haste, her body rebelled. She could not even take a step before she staggered. She felt dizzy and weak and - then she felt nothing.

She fell, crumpling awkwardly to the ground. Her head struck a rock. For the second time in the eighteen months since she had come to Milton, she lay unconscious and bleeding. But this time there was no Mr. Thornton to carry her inside. She was outside of town, on a secluded riverbank, alone in the dark and cold.

* * *

Dixon grew alarmed as soon as the sun hit the low rooftops with no sign of Margaret. By dusk, she was frantic. A servant girl was not bound by the same rules as a lady, thank goodness, so she was able to grab a shawl and head out to look for her charge.

She headed straight to the Higgins' and pounded on the door. Mary opened it, looking confused, and then her concern quickly mirrored Dixon's face. She let Dixon in without a word.

Nicholas Higgins looked up from his soup. His happy greeting to Dixon never made it past his lips when he saw her expression. "Where's Miss Margaret?" he demanded. "What's happened to her?"

"I don't know, Mister Higgins. I was going to ask you the same question. I was praying she was here. She _was_ here before, yes? She came here today?"

Mary, who hardly ever spoke, said, "She left at noon, mum."

Dixon felt sick. Six hours ago. And now it was well and truly dark outside.

* * *

Higgins was devastated that he could not do anything to help, but he could not walk, and Mary could not safely be out in the streets after dark. So Dixon left their home with only their prayers to help her. She was almost to the constabulary when she rounded a blind corner and ran - whump! - into a tall man dressed in black.

"Excuse me," he said stiffly, lifting his hat. "I beg your - " His tone immediately softened when he recognized her. "Dixon? What are you - "

"Sir, Mister Thornton, Sir, excuse me." She was gasping for air, her expression terrible. "I am in a terrible hurry, sir. _The mistress is missing_, sir."

She saw his face go white.

He fought to keep his voice steady. "Missing? Since when? What happened?"

"She never came home today, sir. She went to visit Nicholas Higgins, sir, but that was at nine this morning. They said she left them at noon, but I never saw hide nor hair of her at home. Sir, something must have happened to her!"

Indeed, he knew it must have. His mind filled instantly with images of the worst possibilities: Margaret abducted, hit by a carriage, dying, drowned...he pushed them away and forced himself to move, to help Dixon.

* * *

They had search parties together within the hour. The men looked all night, with torches blazing. No one was more tireless than John Thornton. The night was frigid but he felt no cold, and indeed he stripped down to his shirt and vest, his white sleeves making him stand out from the other men under the torches. They looked in the graveyard and along all of the routes that Margaret might have taken to return home from the Higgins' house. They pounded on doors to see if anyone had seen her. No one had.

John knew he could not stop looking until she was found. She did not love him, he thought; but _he_ loved _her_, and he could not bear to live in a world without her. He could not _imagine_ a world without her. And he could not allow Milton to deal her yet another blow. He felt somehow responsible for all of the suffering she had gone through in his town. He should have been able to protect her.

She had to be found. She had to be safe. And he would find her.

* * *

Dawn came with no sign of Margaret. A gentle rain began to fall over the streets and fields. John's shirt grew soaked but he paid no attention. Men stopped searching to go to work, or go home to rest; others took their place. John Thornton did not stop, even to eat or drink. For the first time in ten years, he did not go to work. His face was set into a look of determination, but those who knew him best would have known that it was also a look of fear, and pain.

With each passing moment, he knew that her chances were diminishing. And he was terrified.

* * *

At eleven that morning, he found her.

They had broadened their search to the edges of town. He had chosen to walk the river. As he walked, he scanned the river and the bank, praying that he would not find her drowned.

It was her limp hand that he saw first, and he felt his insides turn to ice. Unable to say a word or call for help, he simply scrambled down the riverbank and around a curve in the river until he stood over her.

He was gasping for breath, on the edge of tears. He knelt to take her hand, peered anxiously into her face. Her skin was so very cold against his fingers. "Margaret!"

She was soaked from the rain and streaked with mud. Her hair clung to her face in little ringlets. And the rock below her head was wet with blood, not rain.

But she breathed. She was still alive. And when he saw that, he was able to calm his breathing enough to cry out that he had found her.

He scooped her up, then, and began to carry her home. She made a noise as he moved her, but did not wake. Her blood stained his shirt. He whispered to her as he walked.

"Margaret, be strong. Hold on to this life, Margaret. Don't go. Please don't go."

He felt her trembling in his arms. He wished he had not left his coat, so that he might have wrapped her in it to warm her up. Instead, he held her close.

Her house was closer than his, so he took her there. Dixon let him in. She was first overjoyed to see them. Her relief quickly melted to more worry than ever at the sight of Margaret in Thornton's arms. Soaked and bloodied. Eyes closed.

He carried Margaret into the house, and up to her room, laying her on her own bed. Dixon watched, unable to speak, and then came forward to grasp Margaret's hand and gently touch her forehead. Margaret lay senseless, shivering, her dress sending rivulets of muddy water across the coverlet. Nobody noticed the mud Thornton had tracked in.

He turned to Dixon. "I've sent for the doctor. You should take her out of these wet clothes. I'll go boil some water," and he was gone downstairs, quickly, so that Dixon would not delay.

* * *

Doctor Donaldson came and went. He declared that Margaret had a concussion, had lost a lot of blood, and that she had likely caught a very bad chill. John did not say out loud his thoughts that all of these things were evident without a medical degree.

He knew that he should leave; that if Margaret were conscious, he would be unwelcome; and yet he was loathe to be away from her. He tried to find things he could do to be useful, but by mid-afternoon he felt his own fatigue and chill begin to weigh upon him. He still had not eaten or drunk since the previous night.


	3. Chapter 3

John Thornton returned to work that afternoon, waving away all questions, his expression frozen and unreadable. There was much to be done. He was relieved to be distracted. He stayed in his office until late into the evening. He interrupted himself only once - to send a fruit basket to the Hale residence. He never remembered to eat, himself.

Once, when he stopped working, his head filled with the memories - her pale hand. Her trembling body pressed against his. The blood in her hair.

He felt frightened, ill.

He didn't let himself stop again after that.

Exhausted, he fell asleep at his desk.

He awoke early the next morning, uneasy from dreams of death and blood and rushing waters. He was stiff from his awkward pose. He found that he was under a blanket, and silently blessed his mother.

He spent the day like any other, and tried to keep things normal. There were many rumors flying about Miss Hale but he refused to talk about it, and chastised others for doing so. But he looked up more quickly than usual today whenever he heard footsteps. He was hoping for news of Miss Hale.

No news came.

At closing time Thornton left immediately, in behavior totally unlike his usual self. He walked as quickly as he could to her house, head down, looking at no one. His heart was pounding in his ears. What would he find?

Dixon answered the door. He did not like the fatigue and worry that he saw in her face. He tried to keep his own features calm and respectful. "I came to inquire after Miss Hale."

Miss Dixon frowned. "Begging your pardon, sir, but she's no better. I am so grateful for what you did, sir, but I am so worried."

He did not expect her to invite him in, but she did. Unbelieving his own presumption, he asked to see Margaret, and he did not know why Dixon said yes, but she did.

He went upstairs. She lay in bed, eyes closed, looking small and vulnerable. The blood had been sponged from her face. To his eyes she seemed frighteningly still.

He pulled a chair over to the bed, and sat down. With Dixon's permission, he took out his treasured copy of Plato's Republic. The book that was never far from him; the book she sent to him just after her father died. He had told himself that he had accepted it in her father's memory, but in his heart he know he treasured it because it was from her.

In a quiet voice, he began to read it to her.

* * *

He came by the next night, and the next, and read to her. Hoping that she heard him. Hoping that, somehow, this would help, that somehow, his voice would lead her back to him.

Not that that makes any sense, he told himself. Since she despises me. And yet, somehow, he could not stop, and he was so grateful that Miss Dixon allowed it.

He neglected everything else but work and reading to Margaret. All week he kept forgetting to eat, until his mother pointed out that he was on the way to starving himself down to nothing, and look what good that did Margaret?

She had a point. He forced himself to take in at least a few bites.

On Friday, three days after he found her, he came to the house only to pass Doctor Donaldson as he was leaving. The Doctor frowned at him.

"May I inquire as to Miss Hale's condition, Doctor?"

The Doctor shrugged. "You may inquire, sir. But I do not think you'll like what you hear. She has developed a fever. It is already very high. I fear this shall be pneumonia before we are done. And she is very thin, and, I think, already in a weakened condition." He looked up at Thornton's face, which had become very still and guarded.

"I do not wish to prepare you for the worst, Mister Thornton, but I very much wish that she had not developed this fever. Poor Miss Hale!"

The Doctor took his leave. Thornton did not notice; he could not see anything. Fear tore at his throat. His hands began to shake.

He fought to calm himself. _She is a fighter,_ he thought. _She is strong. She took on a rioting mob for me, and she doesn't even like me. She will make it. _

But he had not been this frightened in many, many years.

It took him several minutes until he felt calm enough to knock on her front door.

Dixon allowed him to return to Margaret's bedside. Thornton had to admit that the doctor was right. Margaret had changed, and not for the better.

She was breathing rapidly, her curls wet with sweat on her forehead. Oh God, he thought, why? Why are You doing this? Hasn't she suffered enough? Why, Margaret? Why did you let this happen?

He forgot completely that Dixon was in the room. He only thought of Margaret. He sat down, but did not take out the book. Instead, he took her hand, and began to talk to her.

"Margaret," he whispered. "Margaret. We are here. Don't go anywhere. Come back to us. Come back, Miss Hale. Please."

She never moved.

* * *

He sat there for hours, holding her hand, speaking to her, not wanting to leave her. But nothing changed, and he knew that even taking into account the extraordinary degree to which Dixon had bent the rules for him, he could not stay the night.

It was when he was rising to leave that he heard her begin to speak.

She was dreaming. "Fred!" she said softly, and then louder. She tossed her head on the pillow. "Oh my poor, dear Fred! He is hanged! All is lost! FRED! Oh, Fred!" It was a scream. She was delirious.

His heart broke.

In a fog, without thinking, he sat down to try to calm her, with Dixon on the other side of the bed. They took her hands and said Shhh, shhh...

"Fred is fine, mistress Margaret, he's fine," he heard Dixon say.

Thornton was stunned. He turned and looked hard at her, and saw that she was looking at him, with an expression he could not read. Guilt? Fear? He had no idea what was going on. All he knew was that he was a fool. Even in her illness, even on what could be her deathbed, Margaret was dreaming of another man, and apparently even the servants knew who this secret lover was.

He could not bring himself to say anything more. He felt wrapped in cotton, unable to think or even breathe. He took his leave as soon as he could, and walked home, unseeing. He fell into bed as if struck down, and knew no more.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day dawned grey and hard. Snow fell in stinging flurries. In the courtyard outside his window, it made the heavy bags of cotton slippery under the workers' gloves.

John woke. He was still dressed in yesterday's clothes. He felt old. His head was thick and dull. He forced himself not to think at all. Not to think of her. Not to feel anything.

He wrote a polite and cold note to Dixon that day, sending his regrets. He stated that business had called him away and that he would not return. He handed the letter to a delivery boy. He fought hard not to care, not to think, not to feel that the letter slipping from his fingers was his heart's desire, falling away forever...

He buried himself in his work. There was plenty to do - more than he could manage, if he was honest with himself. The strike had done its damage. The mill was truly failing. It seemed only a matter of time before things would fall completely apart.

But still, perhaps, he could turn it around.

If he worked on it day and night.

He was glad of the excuse to forget everything else, to think only of cotton and bulk orders and the safety of his workers. He let his days blend into one another.

And yet he still caught his breath whenever someone entered his office unexpectedly. Because they might be the one to bring the news he dreaded, and close the door to his happiness forever.

To tell him that she had died.

He was so angry with her, and with himself. And so completely lost in love. He hated himself for being so weak. He pushed himself ever harder to forget, to move on, to just keep working...

A week went by. Higgins returned to work with only a limp to show for his injury, and Thornton was glad to see him.

One day at closing time, Higgins called over to Thornton from the door of the worker's cafeteria. "Master Thornton! Have you heard?"

John turned slowly, his heart beating faster. Higgins sounded happy. Was it good news? He came over and quietly said, "What news is this?"

"Miss Hale. Mary tells me she's much better. Doc thinks she'll make it, be out of bed soon."

John could not prevent himself from exhaling, from leaning against the doorway as the world spun a little bit around him. He tried to keep his face as empty as possible as he felt what seemed like every emotion he'd ever felt spinning through his brain. Relief, anger, joy, hope, despair, love...he even had a moment of hoping that whoever this Fred is, he WAS hanged. And then John was ashamed of himself.

All of this seemed to take a very long time. He blinked and returned his gaze to Higgins. John's voice was rough. "That is..., that is..., that is very good news indeed. I am glad for her." He coughed and looked away again, feeling his lungs moving too quickly in his chest.

Higgins regarded him with a shrewd look, and said nothing.

* * *

That next day was a Saturday, and Higgins took the opportunity to call on Miss Margaret. He found her sitting up on a sofa in a sunlit drawing room. She was not in black but instead in a rose-colored shawl that made her skin glow. He was struck by the sight: she looked so much improved, so alive, and the sunlight was so lovely in her hair...

"Miss Margaret. Ye are looking well. I am so very glad to see it. Ye did give us all quite the scare, ye know."

She smiled, and her smile brought even more sunlight into the room. "Thank you, Nicholas." Her voice betrayed her recent illness. It was low and quiet, and she paused to breathe between sentences. "Let me clasp your hand; I have missed you. I am so sorry that I caused so much concern."

He took her hand gladly, and relished the feeling of its warmth. He, too, had feared the worst. It was wonderful to know that they would not be deprived of Miss Hale anytime soon.

"How is it that ye look so improved, Miss Margaret? One would think you hadn't had pneumonia. Ye look better than when ye were in my house that damned day. Oh -" he interrupted himself - "but I canna bear to think that 'twas from my house ye went missing. Not a day has gone by that I don't feel terrible that we didn't walk ye home."

Margaret leaned over to him. "Oh no, Nicholas, don't. I merely fainted. It was just bad luck that I - that I - that I wasn't somewhere where I could be easily seen."

She sat up a little straighter in her chair and looked a little embarrassed. "I am merely thankful that I was found. Dixon says there was searchers looking for me all through the night. I am so sorry to have caused such trouble."

"Never mind that, now," said Higgins. "But ye'll be needing to thank John Thornton personally. Ye know he was out all night looking for ye. He never slept nor ate until he found ye, is how I heard it. And after he carried ye home - but Dixon'll have told ye this, I'm sure - "

He stopped, confused. Miss Margaret had turned very pale.

"Miss Margaret? Are ye all right? Shall I - do ye need a doc?"

She spoke slowly, as if coming back from a long distance. Her voice sounded changed and a little strangled.

"No...no...No, Nicholas, I am...fine, I am - " she paused -

"I am _fine_." She swallowed, and played with the embroidery of her shawl. "Just - still recovering."

It was then that Higgins made a choice. He could have let her lie to him. He could have let the matter fall; she was all but begging him to do so. That is what a gentleman would have done. But there were times, he thought to himself, when it was _damn_ liberating to be a working man, and to be able to pretend he was not aware of the complicated manners of the people above him.

This was going to be one of those times. Nicholas was proud to be who he was. He cared for Miss Margaret. And he knew that something was very wrong.

He took a breath. "Miss Margaret." She refused to look at him.

"Begging yer pardon, miss, but did ye not know?"

She still kept her face turned away from him, but two spots of red rose on her cheeks. He saw her lip begin to tremble; saw her clench her jaw to stop it.

"I - " she began. Her voice cracked. She took a breath and tried again. "I - did not. Know. I- Dixon has not mentioned this. She only -"

Margaret paused, and then, she, too, seemed to make a choice. With a shaking hand, she pulled a letter from the table, and handed it to Nicholas.

"I was brought this letter yesterday. It seems - It seems that Mr Thornton wishes me well from ...afar."

Higgins opened it. It was dated four days after Miss Margaret had disappeared from his house.

_Dear Miss Dixon, _

_I regret that I shall not be able to visit Miss Margaret in her convalescence. Business has called me away. Please assure her that I wish her the speediest recovery. _

_With regards, _

_John Thornton_

Higgins was thoroughly confused. "But this..." he paused. "He has not come to see you?"

She began to look as if she might cry. "No," she whispered. "no.

"Nicholas." Her voice became very low indeed. "He does not care for me." And she pressed her lips together and took a breath. Then she faced him, and made a brave smile.

"But you and I are friends, dear Nicholas, and for that I am very glad.

"You will bring Mary next time, won't you?"

Nicholas did not know what to say. He felt sure in his heart that John loved Margaret. And yet, the letter was so cold. And John was not here, and had not visited. Perhaps Dixon was right in keeping Miss Margaret from hearing the story of what Thornton had done. Perhaps she did not want Miss Margaret to be further hurt.

It did not make a lot of sense to him.


	5. Chapter 5

The door closed behind Higgins. Margaret sat, unmoving, watching the space that he had left. Slowly she turned her head to the window. She felt very removed and odd.

She thought back to the day that she awoke from her illness. She had been so weak and disoriented. She remembered asking Dixon what had happened and how long she had been ill. And she remembered feeling strangely different.

Something had happened to her as she slept and dreamed. Her long rest had given her what solitude and funerals could not. Something had healed that had not been able to heal before.

The day she got out of bed, she chose that pink shawl, and asked Dixon to put away her mourning clothes. She still grieved, but she no longer felt like she was drowning. Perhaps life could continue after all.

When Dixon brought her the letters that she had received, John's was not a surprise. She knew what he thought of her - she saw it in every encounter, every day since the inquest had been cancelled. That day in the graveyard he had seemed so awkward and embarrassed, as if he couldn't wait to be out of the presence of such a wanton woman. So it was to be expected that he would not have visited her.

But apparently, he had.

She turned her head and called out. "Dixon!" There was no answer. She called out, more insistently, "_Dixon!"_

In a few minutes, Dixon appeared in the doorway, "Yes, Miss. Would you like your tea?"

Margaret did not waste words. "Dixon, what are you not telling me?"

A red flush filled Dixon's cheeks, and she looked away. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mum."

Margaret pulled herself up to her full seated height and drew on all of that haughty spirit that had once vexed John Thornton so. "Dixon. This will not do. I am not to be trifled with. Mister Higgins tells me that John Thornton brought me home." She tried unsuccessfully to keep the tremor of emotion out of her voice. She finally managed to gain control by using anger, and let her tone be nearly vicious.

"You are a servant. It is not your place to keep information from me. What can this mean? How is is that he - he - he" her voice dropped to a whisper, as she could barely believe it - "carried me home, and then sends this letter? What are you not telling me?"

Dixon looked as if she were about to cry. She took a long time to answer. Finally, wringing her hands, she sat down hard in a chair and said, "Miss. It...it is true."

"He _did_ look for you. All night. He did...and bring you home himself. And then he came back, Miss, several times, to inquire after you. Read you a book, even."

Dixon turned her eyes to Margaret. "Miss, I was beginning to think that he...that he...that he wished to court you if you were to recover."

Margaret sat, trying to keep still. Her heart felt like a trapped bird inside her chest. She felt that she could not even make sense of this. It was John who had found her. It was John who had saved her life. John, look for her all night? John treat her with such love and attention?

And yet it was also John who had sent this cold letter, as if he had never visited. As if he never wished to see her again. She picked it up and held it in front of Dixon, who seemed unwilling to continue.

"And...?"

Dixon sighed, "Oh, Miss. I did not want you to know. I truly didn't. It's..." her voice broke. "It's so _shameful_." She paused. And then Margaret knew.

It was Fred. It must be Fred.

Dixon's voice was low. She seemed ashamed, herself.

"Miss...you talked in your sleep.

"You talked of Fred, and of his being...hanged." She leaned over and patted Margaret's hand with a pleading, sympathetic look on her face. "You were dreaming, poor thing, and you were so frightened. 'Tweren't your fault, mistress - you were like to die! You were so ill! But...Master Thornton, Miss...he's..he's a _magistrate_.

"I could see it in his eyes. When he heard you a-calling out for...for Fred. He looked terrible put out, he did. Now he knows there's someone in the family who's committed a crime. And Miss, I don't think a magistrate can court the sister of a...an accused. _We_ know Fred is innocent, Miss Margaret, but he does not."

It was a good theory, although Margaret was not convinced that this was what what gone through John's mind.

But did it really matter?

John had despised her before and apparently he did so now. The fact that he had apparently, briefly, behaved in a gentlemanlike and tender manner to her while she was unable to appreciate it was just something additional to add to the ironies and frustrations of her life right now. And she had decided not to dwell in the dark places any more.

She felt a tear run down her cheek, but she felt resigned and calm as she thanked Dixon for telling her, then sent Dixon away.

The rest of the afternoon found Margaret turning things over and over in her head. By sunset, she had come to realize three things.

The first was that she and John would never get along. That was clear. Fate seemed determined to pull them apart no matter what the circumstances. The difficult way in which they met. The riot. The proposal. That fateful night on the train platform. Her lies to the inspector, and now this. She could not control the spiraling effects that Fred's troubles had on her life, and no matter how he was connected with her, it seemed that John Thornton would disapprove.

So be it.

The second thing that Margaret decided was that she should leave here for London as soon as possible. She had had enough of Milton, with its pollution and its violence and its cold, hard weather. She had had enough of death. She had no one left and nothing to regret. Harley Street, gilded cage that it was, would be a welcome sanctuary for her weary heart.

The third thing that she realized that day was the final straw that made her suddenly weep, hard, into that rose-colored shawl. It was this:

She loved John Thornton.

She knew it as soon as Higgins said his name. She knew it when she felt she would faint again at that moment, as Higgins told her the story of his gallantry. She knew it as she hoped against hope that Dixon's story would have some other, hopeful ending; that she could suddenly open that letter and find some other, warmer words. She knew it when she felt despair at Dixon's grief on her part. And she knew it now as she knew that he did not love her, and that he would never love her again.

She loved him, and he did not love her.

It was so much to bear! Indeed, she felt for a minute that she simply she _could not_.

She was crying again, shaking, just like that day on the river. She was not accustomed to so much grief.

But Margaret had a core of steel. That day, she found it.

"Margaret!" She hissed at herself, frustrated with her weakness. "Enough!"

That was enough to help her stop weeping. In fact, it was at that moment that she realized that this knowledge would not crush her. _It would not crush her. _

Losing Fred had not crushed her; Milton had not; Bessie's death; her parents' deaths. Not even a night out in a cold rain had killed her. And loving John Thornton without hope would not crush her.

She lived. Dear God, despite these trials, she lived. And she would smile again.

She wondered idly how long she had loved him.

Well, she thought, almost smiling at herself, though tears coursed down and dripped off of her chin. I certainly have had a year of unfortunate circumstances.

Oh, I dearly hope that London will bring me a new start.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note, 4/16/13: **

**I wrote this story in a rush of passion :) in something like six days, and I have two kids and work almost full-time, so I didn't always have the time to edit it as cleanly as I'd like. I am going back through and trying to clean it up now, so if you find any awkward places or typos that I have missed, please let me know either in a review or in a PM. I'd like it to be as clean and as close to perfect as possible. Thank you, and I hope you've enjoyed it!**

* * *

The loud sound of the factory whistle brought John back to himself. He had been hunched in his chair for hours, and closing time had again snuck up on him. He was stiff and hungry.

He was deciding whether to keep working into the evening when he heard Higgins call up from the courtyard, in that voice that was always on the edge of teasing: "Master! Ye working over yer time again?"

The familiar address was welcome. John took the excuse to stop for the day. He came down to meet Higgins.

The Boucher boy was not there today. The two men rested on the edge of the cotton delivery platform, as usual, and chatted for a few minutes. The courtyard quickly emptied of the last workers, leaving them alone.

To be honest, John relished these conversations. They were always interesting and never, ever about the last thing he ever wanted to talk about: Margaret.

Today John and Nicholas were discussing the pros and cons of the fan wheels that John had installed in his factory. But then Higgins went abruptly quiet. He looked at John sideways. The expression on his face passed from serious, to puckish, to something else.

"Master, I'm confused about something. Will ye enlighten me?"

"Certainly. What can I do?"

"Well, Master, I've been wondering." Pause.

"What is it that keeps ye and Miss Margaret apart?"

John could not have been more surprised if Nicholas had sprouted a second head. He stared at Higgins in disbelief, and then his quick temper arose into fury. When he could find his voice to sputter an answer, his tone was hard and dangerous.

"You - you are mistaken, Higgins. She loves another."

Higgins forged ahead recklessly, seemingly blind to all of the rules he was breaking.

"Are ye sure, Master? Because I'm under a pretty firm impression that the two of you are pining for one another. Mary and me, we both see it.

He leaned in towards John, pleading with him. "Surely you cannot believe the rumors of Miss Hale's indiscretions!"

John's anger was fading as quickly as it had come; instead, he felt just ...defeated. Exhausted. He raised a hand to his aching brow, covering his eyes. In a low, thick voice, he almost whispered, "You must believe me that I do _not_ speak of any rumors. I would not - insult - Miss Hale in that way. My knowledge is of my own - " he choked - "experience.

And then with force and quiet anguish in his voice: "I _pray_ that you not ask me to discuss this any further."

He turned and walked off without another word.

Higgins watched him go, more confused than ever.

* * *

And so it was that John and Margaret might never have spoken again, were it not for a near disastrous close call on the part of Frederick Hale.

John was usually a neat and fastidious man, but the pressures of the past year had made it harder for him to stay on top of things. His desk had become piled with papers of all sorts - numbers sheets, invoices, packing slips, old newspapers, and correspondence all fought to take up the largest share of his work surface.

He was tense and angry the morning after Higgins' impertinent questions; it was a good time to clean up the mess. He needed to feel like he was accomplishing something. Anything.

Anything to help him forget that the mill would soon go under; to help him forget how he longed to see her face; to help him get through the day and the headaches he now constantly had.

He had made quite a bit of progress and was beginning to feel a little better...

And then it happened.

Halfway though the morning, he uncovered a London newspaper from weeks earlier. On the front page there was a picture.

Of a familiar face.

A smiling young man in Navy regimentals, face full of hope and excitement. The picture was under a headline: _Mutineer Still at Large. _

_Dangerous Mutineer and Hardened Criminal Frederick Hale, son of Mstr. Richard Hale, formerly Vicar of Helstone, Hampshire, lately of Milton, was nearly apprehended late yesterday in a London street. It is thought that he was in England to attend the funeral of his mother. He eluded capture and is still at large. REWARD for any and all information leading to his capture!..._

The boy at the station.

The beautiful, aristocratic young man, so different from coarse, rough, blunt John Thornton. The boy who had so captivated Margaret. For whom she had risked her virtue, and then lied about it to an officer of the law.

The young man's face blurred on the page. John could read no more.

He hardly knew what he was doing. He stood up and nearly tipped over. His legs took him unsteadily out of his office. He crossed the courtyard in a fog. He found himself in his bedroom. Without meaning to, without thinking, he opened a bottom dresser drawer and took out a carefully folded bloody white shirt.

He sat on the bed and stared at this object for a long time.

_He was her brother._

* * *

Margaret stopped again to catch her breath. She leaned on a tall headstone to rest a moment, feeling its cold stone and the cool morning breeze both soothe her skin. She felt invigorated.

It was frustrating that she had lost so much strength in such a short time, and should need to rest so often on a path that had formerly been very easy for her. But at the same time, she asked herself, what should I hurry for? There is no one but Dixon to care if I make it home for lunch. If it takes me all afternoon to climb this hill, well then, the view will be all the more welcome.

She had to admit that this freedom to do as she pleased was one of the things she was going to dearly miss upon her return to Harley Street.

But there was no use dwelling on such things. Milton was clearly not the place for her. Why, on top of everything else, London was that much closer to Cadiz!

It was for the best.

She arose and turned to continue, but stopped short.

John Thornton stood not ten paces away, staring at her.

How funny, she thought, this is where we met last month. How much has changed since then.

Indeed, Mr. Thornton had the oddest look on his face. Was it: joy? Or sadness? Or a combination of the two? It was unreadable, and yet so different from the dead face that was all that she had seen him wear for many months. No, this man was _alive_ and intensely looking at her as if she were a thing of beauty.

* * *

He could not tear his eyes from her. He had been waiting since dawn, hoping to see her. Desperate to see her. And yet he did not want to call at her home. Milton society stayed always indoors, in stuffy sitting rooms; John knew that his Margaret, child of Helstone, was happiest out in the fresh air. That was where he wanted to wait for her.

_His_ Margaret. Could she be? Was it possible that Higgins was right? He breathed as if he had been running.

He had watched her patiently, practically, climb the path. She was slowed down but not defeated by the remains of her illness. She is very strong, he thought.

And then he thought he would burst with the love that he felt.

* * *

They stood there now, looking at each other.

Margaret did not know that the look on her face was one of serenity; of peace; of independence. She was so different from the sad and lost child she had been until so recently.

She had been through a crucible. Her worries, her uncertainties, her losses, her hopes, her future had all burned away. She stood there silently with all she had left: Quiet strength. Thoughtfulness. Acceptance.

John ached to touch her.

He spoke first. "Miss Hale." It came out in a squeaky, thick mess. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Miss Hale, it is very good to see you looking so well."

She nodded politely, and then answered in her new, quieter voice, with pauses to breathe. "And to see you, sir. I trust that you are well?"

"I am well, thank you."

"And your mother?"

"She is very well, thank you."

She had no other relatives about which he could inquire, as etiquette required.

It was an awkward, strangled conversation.

They stood in silence for what felt like a terribly long time, avoiding each other's gaze. Margaret turned and moved away from him to sit on a bench. He followed her, standing awkwardly, not wanting to crowd her. He couldn't find a good place for his hands.

Margaret was the first to be brave. She knew what she had to do. It would indeed be a relief to be done with it.

She cleared her throat and focused her attention very intently on the horizon.

"I must thank you, sir." She paused. She turned her gaze down to her hands.

"It...It seems that you were instrumental in finding me on that terrible day." She grew more assured, speaking more quickly. "Surely without you I would have frozen to death. I am sorry that I was not able to thank you in person until now, but I was led to believe...that is, I..."

She did not seem to know how to finish this thought with its cruel implications.

Finally she said, "I know you have been very busy indeed."

Her voice trailed off, and she returned her eyes to the buildings of Milton in the distance.

Again there was silence; a great gulf between them. He could not answer her. He was so ashamed of the things he had said, and of that infernal letter!

He did not know how to say what he must say. His thoughts raced as he tried to begin a sentence, any sentence, that would take him where he wanted to go.

She watched him without a word. She had nothing more to say herself that would not, she felt, be offensive to him. Instead, she let herself examine the fine lines around his eyes, the slope where his ear hit his jaw, his hands that she would never touch again. How I love him, she thought. How nice it would have been to be loved back.

I hope that he -

"Miss Hale," he finally burst out, interrupting her reverie. She realized that he was almost panting with his effort. What was he trying to say?

"I...I...have done you a disservice."

A tiny ember of hope flared up inside of her, but she stubbornly crushed it out. She looked at him with perfect calm. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

Her cold detachment was so unnerving! And yet he could not stop. He sent out a silent prayer that Higgins was right and that this was not insanity. And then he forced himself to speak again.

"I know...of your unfortunate brother. Of - of Frederick." She turned paler as he spoke the name.

"I -" he struggled to get words out. He looked nearly stricken. "I thought..._very_ wrong of you. When I saw you at the station...

"I was a fool to think that you could act in an...improper manner. I am..." he stopped, and when he spoke again his voice trembled.

"I am so very ashamed of my assumptions. I know that he was your brother," he repeated.

She had turned her face away from his, but those two tell-tale red spots arose on her cheeks. She fought to keep her hopes buried. She fought to remind herself that he did not love her. His silly passions for her had long faded; he had told her so himself. How those comments had stung on that cold and dreary afternoon!

And yet, fool that she was, when she could trust her voice again, she did not say what she should.

She did not look at him with wounded, haughty pride, and coldly accept his apology, as Aunt Shaw would have wanted. She knew she should. But she could not.

Instead - in disbelief at her own idiocy - she gave him one last chance. One last chance to hurt her again. To push her away again. She knew he would do so.

And yet, somehow, she did not want to do it first.

And so, after a long pause, she turned her head to look up at him. She looked straight into the eyes of the man she loved and defied him to hurt her again.

With great care, she asked simply, "Why do you tell me this?"

The breath rushed out of Thornton with an audible sound. He knew, at last, what to say. He sank onto the bench as if it were the only lifeboat to rescue him in all the world. He did not dare touch her, but whispered with all of his being in every word: "Because - because I love you still, Margaret. I always have."

She did not say a word. She looked away and began to tremble. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Still unsure, but almost believing, he gently, slowly, reached out. He took her hand in his.

And then he felt his world completely change as she suddenly pulled his hand to her lips and gently kissed it. Her tears wet his rough skin. She was shaking, crying. He realized that he was crying, too.

He reached to her cheek and lifted her face, marveling that he was at last holding the woman he had loved for so long. Her face was blotchy already and soaked with tears. She looked at him and laughed a tiny laugh of joy, of relief, of surprise! And then it was the most natural thing in the world to lean forward and kiss her, his most darling Margaret. They laughed and cried and kissed again, hands intertwined.

They stayed there a long time while the afternoon sun warmed the hedgerows and headstones of the cemetery. By the time they rose to return to town, hands clasped, the winter wind had turned just a little sweeter, giving its first promise of spring.


End file.
